May 13th, 2025.
Today was just like every other day… until it wasn't. If someone had told me a week ago that life would spiral this far out of control, I would've laughed. Or maybe cried. But the truth is, the fall didn't happen overnight—it was a slow, agonizing descent, like drowning in quicksand, fully aware you're sinking but powerless to stop it.
I'm 22 years old. A nobody. Just another forgotten college student fading into the gray static of society. I don't have a grand dream or a burning passion. No legacy to carry. No one waiting for me at home. No future, either, if I'm being honest. The most accurate way to describe my life? A long, unending sigh.
I live in a cramped apartment that stinks of damp wood and mold, walls stained yellow from years of neglect. My bed creaks whenever I shift, and the fan rattles like it might fall from the ceiling. This is where I exist—isolated, disconnected from a world that never really let me in.
I suppose it started with my parents. My father was a textbook example of everything a man shouldn't be—an addict, a liar, a criminal. He'd disappear for weeks, come home high or drunk, and demand money we didn't have. I remember once, when I was about seven, he threw a ceramic plate at my mother during one of his episodes. It missed and shattered next to my head. I couldn't hear clearly for hours.
He finally got locked up for drug trafficking when I turned ten. I never saw him again. Good riddance.
My mother wasn't much better. She had her own demons. She screamed more than she spoke, and every word was dipped in venom. Sometimes, I wondered if she looked at me and saw nothing but a mistake—one more burden in her already crumbling life. She dated men who treated her like garbage and ignored the fact that I existed, unless she was venting her rage. Once, she slapped me in front of my entire fifth-grade class for forgetting to bring a project home. The teacher didn't say a word. No one did.
I never got toys. Never celebrated birthdays. Never had real meals unless school lunch counted. By the time I turned fifteen, I had developed a reflexive flinch every time someone raised their voice near me.
No one ever came to parent-teacher conferences. No one taught me how to ride a bike. I didn't go on school trips because we couldn't afford them—or rather, because the money always vanished for cigarettes and alcohol. I learned early on that affection was something I'd only ever see in movies.
I guess, after all that, I just… stopped trying to belong.
The internet became my refuge. The glowing screen was the only warmth I had. I immersed myself in fiction, in games, in videos of people laughing and living lives I could only dream of. I kept telling myself, just hold on. If I could get into college, things would get better.
And so, I clawed my way through school. I wasn't brilliant. Just average. But average was enough.
I got into a second-rate university and decided to study medicine. The irony of wanting to become a doctor when I couldn't even heal my own wounds wasn't lost on me. Still, it felt like a step forward. Maybe, just maybe, I could help people the way no one ever helped me.
That dream died fast.
When my peers found out about my family background, the bullying started like clockwork. Whispered rumors turned into open mockery. Someone photoshopped my mother's face onto adult images and spread them in a student group chat. Another time, someone replaced my presentation slides with porn and played it in front of the entire class. Professors didn't care. They just frowned and moved on.
I endured it. I endured it all—until the day I couldn't.
One evening, after classes, I was walking back to the dorms when three guys cornered me behind the chemistry building. They said they were "teaching me a lesson." Fists flew, bones cracked. I fought back, but I was outnumbered. When it was over, I lay there with a fractured rib, a broken wrist, and a split lip.
I spent four days in the hospital. No visitors. No phone calls. Just me and the cold hum of machines.
When I came home, I hoped—God, I hoped—for something, anything to give me the strength to go on. But life still had more knives to twist. I opened the door to find my mother with two strangers, both drunk and half-naked. She didn't even flinch when she saw me. Just told me to "get out if I had a problem."
The next morning, the university called. Suspension. Apparently, one of the girls in the fight accused me of hitting her. I hadn't. I barely even touched her. But no one asked for my side. They saw my file, my background, and decided I was guilty.
I didn't even argue. I didn't have the strength.
Now I'm facing criminal charges for assault I didn't commit. My name is smeared. My education is over. My life—what little it was—is in pieces.
The worst part? No one cares. Not my mother. Not the police. Not the university. Not even God, if he's watching.
A week ago, I overheard two classmates in the hospital hallway laughing about me.
"He's just another broken loser from a trash family," one said.
"Honestly, people like him shouldn't even be born," the other replied.
I didn't cry then. I just nodded silently in my mind. Maybe they were right.
I envy the people who can laugh. Who get to wake up in warm homes, have friends, go out for coffee, worry about petty things like breakups and deadlines. I would trade my soul for a sliver of that life. But envy doesn't fix anything. It just deepens the void.
I spent last night staring at the ceiling, wondering what would happen if I just disappeared. Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? I doubt it.
I tried praying. Whispering desperate pleas into the darkness. Asking whatever divine force might be listening for a second chance—a new beginning. Something. Anything.
No answer came.
So maybe this is how it ends. Not with a scream, not with a grand gesture, but with silence. With resignation. With one final breath in a world that never wanted me.
Maybe some people are born broken.
Maybe I was never meant to live a good life.
And maybe, just maybe, if I die tonight…
…I'll wake up somewhere better.